Wednesday, December 16, 2015


                 My little pup tucked in beside my hip,
                 Nestled in my half-cocked easy chair,
                 Breathes softly while I take another sip
                 Of my warm mocha drink and vaguely stare
                 Above my high-piled books into the yard,
                 For all of this provides the ambiance
                 That brings forth verse from an aspiring bard,
                 As out of teeming chaos he makes sense.

                The light’s now brightening and the birds
                Sing their aubades, while planes descending toward
                Orlando International bring words
                To mind as squabbling squirrels attempt to lord
                It over rivals or scare off a cat,
                By which time I am done, and that is that.